


The Liar's Redemption

by GnedTheGnome



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, Bad Inquisitor, Bisexual Male Character, Con Artists, Death, First Time, Fluff, Friendship, Gambling, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Inquisitor's Origin Story, M/M, Mild Smut, Prostitution, Slavery, Starting Over, Swearing, The boy needs to learn to lock his door, Violence, head canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-22
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-07-26 00:12:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7552609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GnedTheGnome/pseuds/GnedTheGnome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trevelyan is not who he claims to be, and decides to come clean with Dorian.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Decision

**Author's Note:**

> Note1: This is written with the assumption that you have played Dragon Age: Inquisition. There aren't any major spoilers, but there are references to things that happened in the game that may be confusing if you haven't.
> 
> Note 2: As of 8/11/16 I've gone through and reworked chapters 1-8. Mostly it's just tightening and tweaking, but there are some new exchanges at the end of chapters 2 and 8 revolving around Fitz's father.

Trevelyan nuzzled the hair of the mage draped across his chest, and inhaled deeply, idly stroking the shell of the man’s right ear. He smelled of lavender and sweat-damp hair. “I love you,” Trevelyan murmured, as he breathed out.

“You what?” Dorian’s head popped up to regard him incredulously.

Trevelyan was as surprised by the declaration as Dorian sounded. Not so much that he had said the words—Maker knows he had said them often enough in his lifetime—but that he actually meant them. 

“I think I’ve fallen in love with you, Dorian, Scandalous Scion of House Pavus,” he said, gazing into those beautiful silver eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked, as he watched a stream of emotions flit across the man’s face: surprise, hope, suspicion.

“If that was meant as a jest, it is _not_ funny,” the Altus huffed.

“No. It isn’t.” He said quietly, brushing an errant lock of hair off of Dorian’s forehead. Trevelyan tried to remember the last time he had told someone he loved them. Oh, of course—the morning of the conclave. Three words whispered in the ear of a sleepy, blonde mage, as he secretly slipped her Master Focus Amulet into his jerkin before taking his leave. He wondered, briefly, if she had survived the explosion. For that matter, what of the man who had commissioned the theft? Trevelyan had been on the way to the rendezvous when the sky opened up, and his world had changed forever.

Dorian still looked a little baffled as he laid his head back down over Trevelyan’s heart. “I… I don’t know what to say. I think what we have is… really something. I want to believe you. I just… I’m not sure that I dare to.”

Trevelyan smiled, ruefully. Quite the pair they made. The one who said the words so easily, but never meant them. The other who meant them—always meant them—but was too afraid say the words. He kissed the top of Dorian’s head. “I understand,” he replied. “And you are probably wise not to trust me.” _I’ve broken more hearts than you will probably—hopefully— ever know._

“What do you mean? Why shouldn't I trust you?” Dorian was looking at him again, curiously.

Trevelyan sighed, his heart clenching in his chest. He so desperately wished that he really were the good and honorable man he had been pretending to be since this whole “Herald of Andraste” thing had started. He wished he deserved those adoring looks that Dorian sometimes gave him through lowered lashes. Sweet Dorian, who had bared himself to him, both physically and metaphorically, deserved honesty and transparency, and got nothing but half-truths and closed lips. 

Then an outrageous thought occurred to him. What if this didn’t have to be another con? Alright, sure, he didn’t really believe for a second that he, of all people, was chosen by the Maker to save the world. But, look what they had accomplished so far, despite his unsuitability to the job. Maybe, it wasn’t so far out of line to think that, just maybe, he could play this role that people wanted him to play, not because there was some prize at the end, but because it was the right thing to do; It was, as Dorian had once said, what the people needed, when they needed it. Was it really that simple? Was it really just a matter of making a choice? He considered Dorian. The man had given up everything he had, willingly, in order to do the right thing. Could Trevelyan just choose to give up his old life? If he were to make that choice—to be honorable from today going forward, the first step was to come clean with his lover.

But, what if Dorian hated him, once he knew who Trevelyan really was? Would it be worth it? But then, could he really hope to hide his past from the mage forever? There would come a day when he would be forced to run, unless he chose now to stand his ground. He took a deep breath, heart racing in a way it never had in those moments when he had been inches from getting caught. “I… I’m not, precisely, who, or what, you think I am.”

“Oh, really? How intriguing. Pray, do tell.” Dorian smiled charmingly, a mask of nonchalance falling into place with practiced ease, as he sat up, creating a physical space between them—a gesture that was not lost on Trevelyan. “Have I not been bedding Ser Harris, third heir to House Trevelyan of Ostwick? Had my parents ever actually approved, they _would_ be aghast.”

Trevelyan smiled tightly at the joke, and sat up as well, eyes falling to his lap. “It’s actually FitzHarris Trevelyan, bastard son of Bann Harris Trevelyan and a Tevinter whore." He winced a little, internally, at the bluntness of his own description. "More recently, a thief and a con man, known by many names.” He wondered again, for the umteenth time, why he had given Cassandra his real name that day when she questioned him. Well, almost his real name. He’d left off the Fitz, but still. After years of hiding from his family, why had he let that slip? “It’s a long story, but… if you would like to hear it, I would like to tell it to you.”

“I see. Do, continue.” Dorian’s face was hard to read, but Trevelyan took a breath and started his tale anyway.

* * *

Fitz was five the day the soldiers came. It was only a small company, flying the standard of the Ostwick Trevelyan Bannorn as they rode into the courtyard of the brothel where Fitz’s mother worked. He remembered looking up as a shadow fell across the stained linen sheet he was scrubbing with a bar of soap. His eyes climbed over shiny metal greaves buckled over leather trews, up, ever farther up, to a studded leather cuirass and a pair of massively muscled arms, incongruously bare. The sun made a halo around the man’s shadowed face as he loomed like a giant over the small boy. The fear and awe must have shown on Fitz’s face, because the man knelt down, out of the blinding light, and smiled reassuringly at him. He had curly, strawberry-blonde hair with a beard to match, and a dusting of freckles across his nose. “This has to be the boy, Bron,” he said to one of the other soldiers in Common Tongue. “Just look at that hair.” He ruffled Fitz’s long, auburn mop with an enormous, gloved hand.

Bron, an older man with a great, black beard, and a scar running from hairline to beardline across his left eye, grunted. “Aye. Got his father’s eyes, too.”

“My name is Adrion,” the blonde man said, kindly, “I work for your father. Is your mother about?”

“You have t’talk to the Madam, if you want to see any of the girls,” Fitz replied, by rote.

Adrion frowned, and huffed, before nodding and straightening. “Keep an eye on the kid. I’ll be right back,” he said, striding toward the entrance to the brothel. It wasn’t long before Fitz could hear raised voices coming from inside the building.

“You do realize, madam, that we are talking about the son of Lord Harris Trevelyan. A Free Marcher, yes, but one who has many family ties here in Tevinter.”

“The mother was bought and paid for when he got the whelp on her. The child rightfully belongs to me. Do you know how much he’s cost me so far? I’ll need to be properly recompensed.” The Madam’s voice was rough with decades of hard living.

“If he’s costing you so much, I should think you’d be happy to see him go.”

The old woman harumpffed. “A few years ago, maybe.” He could almost hear her sly smile, “But he’s turning out to be a very pretty boy. Exotic looks like that sell well. Before long I should be able to get my money back, and then some.”

Fitz couldn’t hear Adrion’s reply, but could hear the anger in his voice, kept tight and low. A few minutes later he strode back out into the courtyard, glowering. “His Lordship won’t be happy about the price, but the deal is done,” he answered Bron’s inquiring look. “Come, young master. You’ll be riding with me,” he said to Fitz, grabbing the boy under the arms, and swinging him up onto his tall, black horse. He mounted up behind the boy, turned his horse’s head away from the brothel, and led his men out on the road back to Ostwick. 

Fitz never saw his mother again.


	2. Childhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz Trevelyan tells Dorian about his early childhood on his father's estate.

These days he could hardly remember his mother—only brief impressions of long, black hair, caramel skin, pale golden eyes. Sometimes he wondered if that had been part of his initial draw to Dorian: some, barely remembered perception of warmth and love that was elicited by his dark Tevinter looks and the lilt of his accent. Of course, that was silly. Dorian’s accent was undeniably upper class. Fitz’s mother had been a Soporati, who sold herself into slavery after one too many desperate, hungry, rainy nights. The only upper-class accents he would have heard at the brothel would have been those of her customers—men of often dubious taste, who came searching for things their wives were unable, or unwilling, to provide. On rare occasions, when his mood was particularly dark, he found himself thinking of things he had little understood at the time, but understood all too well today. On those occasions, he wondered if she might have been better off starving.

“Well, this certainly sheds new light on a few thing,” Dorian said, twisting his mustache pensively. The wax that usually held it in place was long gone, and it drooped sadly at the corners of his mouth. “Why you were so angry with me, that day when we spoke about slavery, for one. I thought you were just…” He waved his hand in the air, as if he might stir up the right words from the ether, “...up on some Southern high horse, with no idea what you were talking about. It never occurred to me that you might… have personal experience.” He frowned, clearly lost in this train of thought. After a moment, he added quietly. “I think, I owe you an apology.”

This was another thing Trevelyan admired about the man. Yes, sometimes he got defensive, and ran at the mouth. But, he was also willing to reconsider his position, and was quick to apologize when he realized he was wrong. 

“It’s alright. I don’t even remember it,” Trevelyan lied, then remembered his resolution, and amended, “Or, rather, only bits and pieces. You’re right. I was angry, in part, for personal reasons.”

Dorian looked up at him suddenly, as if he had just had just had an epiphany. “Is that also why you insisted that the Mages be recruited as free agents?”

Trevelyan nodded. “Yes,” he said, simply. It was odd how, on the one hand, he felt uncomfortably naked, having his motivations out on display like this, but on the other, it felt good to be understood. Especially by Dorian.

There was a brief pause, then Dorian said, gently, “It must not have been easy being the bastard son in your father’s household.”

“At first it wasn’t so bad. My father’s first wife had recently died, childless, and so I was the heir apparent.”

* * *

Although Fitz missed his mother terribly at first, as is often the way with children, she soon drifted to the back of his mind, displaced by the wonder and adventure of new experiences. Those first few years were among the happiest of his life. His father doted on him; He taught the boy how to shoot with a bow, and how to ride a horse. He took him on his first hunting trip, and dutifully cooked that scrawny nug that Fitz brought down after hours of shooting at random prey, and missing. Fitz got the best tutors, and proved to be a good student, quick to pick up new concepts, and creative in the way he applied them. He had his father’s auburn hair and green eyes, and his mother’s bronze skin, and high cheekbones. Paired with his wit, his exotic good looks made him the darling of the household staff. He regularly charmed treats from Cook, lighter workloads from his tutors, and, as he got older, occasional stolen kisses from maids and stable boys alike. He became a regular fixture in the barracks, where he would play cards with Adrion and his men, while Bron taught him how to cheat. It was a good life.

But, then _She_ came, as cliché as it was: The Evil Stepmother. 

He was eight when his father married her, and nine when she bore him a son. With a new, legitimate, heir now available, Fitz was pushed back into second place. A little over a year later, and he was pushed back again, to third. His father had less and less time for the boy, who had suddenly become an embarrassing inconvenience. Fitz, of course, didn’t understand the politics of it all at the time. He only knew that his father was slowly withdrawing the love he had once offered freely.

Fitz had just turned eleven when he overheard the conversation that marked the second major upheaval in his life. 

It was a Tuesday morning, the day he had lessons with his language tutor, a young, serious fellow, who smiled rarely, and blushed easily. They had been working on translations from Tevene to Ferelden, and Fitz had convinced his tutor to allow him to choose his own source material from his father’s extensive library. 

“I… Well, really!” the tutor huffed, turning a delightful shade of crimson, as he read his student’s work.

Fitz laughed aloud, delighting in his tutor’s growing discomfort. Way up there on the top shelf, tucked between a large, dusty tome on Blessed Age Tevinter politics, and a collection of propaganda pamphlets from the Imperium Chantry, Fitz had found a treasure: the scandalous autobiography of an Orlesian courtesan who spent ten years as the _very_ close personal friend of Archon Thalsian. Fitz, of course, had chosen the most salacious passages he could find for his translation.

* * *

Dorian laughed aloud. “Who knew you had such a wicked streak in you?” He clapped his hands together in delight. “Though, I suppose I should have guessed,” he added, with a devilish smile, as he rolled up on his hands and knees, and deposited a quick kiss on the tip of Trevelyan’s nose.

Trevelyan grinned, heart singing the way it always did whenever Dorian allowed his natural enthusiasm to bubble to the surface—those moments when he would burst into laughter in the middle of a heated battle, delighting in the rhythm and flow of his own magic, or when he would loose himself in an animated conversation about some obscure piece of arcana with another mage.

“He made me spend the rest of the lesson translating an incredibly long and boring passage from Hyclesius’s _Duties of an Obedient Student_ ,” he chuckled. “But, it was completely worth it.” He returned Dorian’s kiss, pecking him lightly on the lips, before adjusting himself back more comfortably against the headboard, and continuing his story.

* * *

Fitz paused at the library door, thoughts of his latest assignment momentarily forgotten, when he heard muffled voices coming from the other side.

“Fitz is an embarrassment, to me, certainly, as he should be to you. The boy’s presence here is a daily reminder of… things best not thought about. He undermines your reputation, and casts doubt on the future of your sons.” _She_ was speaking.

“He’s my son, as well.”

She snorted. “My point, exactly. There are those who whisper that his claim supersedes those of your actual, legitimate heirs. You mustn’t allow sentimentality over the accidental by-blow of some Tevinter whore to overshadow your duty to your family.” Her voice suddenly shifted from hard and demanding, to merely exasperated. “Oh, I’m not suggesting you sell him back to the slavers, for heaven’s sake—though why you ever thought it was a good idea to buy him in the first place is beyond me. There’s a school, up in the Vimmark mountains. It is remote enough to keep him out of sight, and out of mind. My family has connections there, so there should be no issues getting him admitted. The next term starts at the beginning of Parvulis.”

“I don’t know...” 

His stepmother switched tactics, “It will be good for him. It will foster independence. He’s growing up, Harris. It is not long before he will be a man, grown, and will have to make his own way in the world. It is hardly an unkindness to prepare him for that inevitability. The education is top-notch. He’ll have the opportunity to ride and hunt, and make friends with other boys his own age. He’ll be happy there, I’m sure.”

“I’ll think about it.” His father said the words, but Fitz could hear the capitulation in his voice. The decision was already made, agreement a mere formality.

On the day Fitz rode out, with Adrion and Bron, and a small retinue, his father came out to see him off. _She_ did not. Fitz was just as glad she didn’t.

“I have something special for you, my son,” Bann Harris said, pulling Fitz aside. “This is a signet ring, bearing the Trevelyan family crest.” He held out a large, gold ring embossed with the image of a stallion rearing out of the ocean’s waves. There was a thin "bar sinister" bisecting the image on a diagonal. Fitz knew the bar represented his bastardy. The ring was tied to a leather thong, which his father now placed over Fitz’s head, saying, “The ring is a bit big, now, but you’ll grow into it. You can use it to seal your letters, when you write home. That way, I will know immediately that they come from you, and can read them right away.” He smiled fondly at his son, blinking rapidly, eyes shining with unshed tears. “You can also use it to sign promissory notes, should you need anything on your journey, or while you are at school. That is only to be used for necessities, mind you. I don’t want to find you’ve charged a hundred sovereigns worth of pralines and sugared almonds to the family account.” 

“I won’t,” Fitz mumbled, his voice subdued and shaky.

Bann Harris chuckled, and pulled Fitz into a big bear hug. “There, now. Be strong, my little man. Don’t cry.” He gripped Fitz by the shoulders, holding him at arms length, before swiping a tear away from Fitz’s cheek with his thumb. “Everything will still be here, just as you left it. This will always be your home. It’s not as if you will never see me again.” He smiled encouragingly giving Fitz a small shake and ruffling his hair, before the boy climbed up onto his mount.

Fitz sometimes wondered at what point his father realized he had lied.


	3. Death and Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trevelyan talks about his last day at school.
> 
> Warning: Brief and mild smut between two minors at the end.

It was early autumn, two weeks before Harvestmere, when fifteen-year-old Fitz was called to the Headmaster’s office.

“Trevelyan,” the headmaster greeted him, looking up from the fund-raising letter he was writing. He indicated the chair in front of his desk. “Please, sit. There’s been a missive from your family.”

 _Ah. More guilt money, then,_ Fitz thought, uncharitably, taking a perch on the edge of the hard, wooden seat. He had become used to receiving gifts and money, in lieu of invitations home for the holidays. These days, it only hurt a little.

The headmaster took a moment to regard the boy, hands folded carefully on his desk, face taking on a vaguely pitying look. Something was wrong. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” he started, “But, it seems… There has been an accident, or, rather… an incident. It’s your father, I’m afraid. He was… attacked… by bandits outside of Ostwick. I’m afraid he didn’t make it.” 

What was he saying? Father, was… dead? No, that couldn’t be. He thought of his father as he had been when Fitz was a child: broad chested and hearty, always smiling and laughing. How could a man so full of life, be dead? Surely there was some mistake.

The headmaster regarded him sadly, clearly uncomfortable. Perhaps he was afraid Fitz was going to break down and cry in front of him. When that didn’t happen, he continued on, “Your family has sent a retainer to fetch you home, ah… for the funeral.”

Fitz felt strangely numb—coldly detached, even as the reality of what he was being told slowly sank in. _If Father is dead, I have no family,_ he thought hazily, twisting his family signet ring around his thumb absently. A beat later, it occurred to him to wonder who had been sent to get him. He hoped it was Adrion. It would be good to see his old friend again—to have that quiet, protective strength by his side on the long ride home. “Where is this retainer?” he asked, hopefully. 

“He rode back to the village. I gather he had already rented a room at the inn for the night.”

Fitz swallowed his disappointment.

The Headmaster continued, “You leave tomorrow, at dawn. I… don’t know how long you will be away, so, perhaps it is best if you take all of your belongings with you.”

Anger seeped in to fill the void in Fitz’s chest. _Translation: I don’t know if your stepmother will be willing to continue paying for your education. Don’t plan on coming back._ Fitz bit back the sarcastic response, and rose to his feet. “I should probably go pack, then. Good day, sir.” He gave the headmaster a tight bow, then strode out the door, not waiting to be dismissed. 

He managed to make it to his room, before the tears came. It was as if a dam suddenly broke, and he was hit by a rushing wave of emotion. First came a sinking sensation in his stomach, as the implications of his father’s death hit him. His heart started to pound, and for a moment he couldn’t catch his breath. No family. Sure, he always knew that he had no real claim to his father’s estate, but until that moment he had never realized how much he had come to depend on his father’s charity as a safety net. He had always assumed that he would complete his schooling, then get shuffled off to some cushy, but out of the way, position in a distant province. Without his father there to protect him, he had no idea what his future might look like. His stomach suddenly twisted with guilt, as he remembered the dismissive irritation with which he had regarded the news of word from home. He would never see his father again, and the last thing he thought about him had been so petty. This thought was quickly followed by anger. Anger over every missed opportunity to spend time with the man who used to love him, while Fitz served his sentence in exile up here in the mountains. And then the fear hit him again. All of these emotions swirled inside him, like a giant cyclone, overwhelming him and tearing him apart from the inside. He crumpled under the intensity of them, falling to his knees in front of his bed, and wept hopelessly into the blankets.

* * *

Trevelyan blinked back tears. “I don’t even know why I’m getting upset,” he said, angrily swiping the back of a hand across his eyes. “He’s been dead more than a decade, and I hadn’t seen him in several years, even then.”

Dorian moved up to lean against the headboard, shoulder to shoulder with his lover. He reached over and gave Trevelyan’s hand a squeeze, pulling it over into his lap, and rubbing it between his palms. “Every son wants his father’s love and approval,” he said softly. “When you realize that it’s… not possible… It can be quite… devastating.”

Trevelyan squeezed Dorian’s hand back, understanding that the man was speaking from experience.

They shared a moment of silence, each lost in his own thoughts, before Trevelyan continued.

* * *

The sun was well below the horizon when Fitz finally cried himself out. He set about packing his minimal belongings, feeling drained and half-drowned. He laid out the soft riding leathers his father sent him last Cloudreach, and the fur-lined cape he had received at Wintermarch. Next to it he placed the beautifully carved bow and quiver of arrows that had arrived at the same time the previous year. Into the hand-tooled leather saddle bags he had come to the mountains with went a few changes of clothes, a light-weight cloak, fire starter kit, a bag of sugared almonds, a few books. He paused when he got to the dirty comic his friend, Reeve, had drawn for him. He flipped through the pages, smiling wistfully at the memory, before slipping it in the bag. He hefted a heavy bag of coins in one hand, considering the safest way to distribute them for travel. He decided to put several of the smaller coins in a leather pouch to be worn on his belt, while the rest would be secreted under his shirt, around his neck. A few other odds and ends, and he was finished.

As he was tightening the last buckle on his bags, he heard a soft knock on his door. He opened it to find three boys crowded in the door frame. Jos, a small mousey boy with wide-set eyes and limp brown hair, was holding a cloth-covered plate. Behind him loomed big, boxy Broderic, and brash and dashing Reeve. 

“You missed supper, so Mrs. McReedy sent this up for you,” said Jos, holding out the plate to him.

“We heard about your Da,” offered Broderic, gently. “We thought you could use some company.”

“We also thought you might like to drown your sorrows,” said Reeve, with a sly smile, pulling a bottle of Antivan brandy from inside his tunic and waving it temptingly at him.

Fitz grinned, genuinely glad to see his friends, and stepped back to let them in. He took the proffered plate in one hand, and the bottle of brandy in the other. “Wherever did you get this?” he asked Reeve, examining the label.

Reeve waved a hand dismissively, as he kicked off his shoes and plopped down on Fitz’s bed, stretching out languidly. “I bribed one of the stable hands to go down to the Village and buy it for me. I was saving it for Harvestmere, but I figured you needed it more than I.”

Fitz’s stomach growled at the smell of the food. Until that moment he hadn’t noticed how hungry he was. He put the bottle and the plate on his desk and immediately tucked into the roast beef, mashed potatoes, and glazed carrots he found under the napkin. He offered up silent thanks to Mrs. McReedy as Jos produced a roll from his jacket pocket, and placed it on the desk next to Fitz’s elbow.

Broderic grabbed both of Reeve’s ankles in one meaty hand and shoved them out of the way before settling down on the end of Fitz’s bed, with his back against the wall. Reeve laughed at being manhandled around, then cheekily flopped his feet across Broderic’s lap. Jos settled down cross legged on the carpet, humming quietly to himself.

“Here, now, Fitz. Do something useful, and hand us that brandy,” Reeve suggested.

Fitz tossed it to him. “I’m afraid I already packed my bottle opener.”

Reeve grinned mischievously. “Never fear, I came prepared,” he said, producing a cork puller from the apparently unlimited depths of his tunic. He pulled the cork out of the bottle with a pop, and took a long swig. Grimacing at the bitter bite of the alcohol, he leaned over the edge of the bed and held out the bottle to Jos. 

Jos took it hesitantly. “Do you know how much trouble we’ll get in if we get caught with this?” he worried, beginning to rock where he sat.

“Don’t worry,” Fitz said, mopping up the last of the gravy from his plate with a piece of bread. “If we get caught I’ll take all the blame. What can they do to me? Send me home?”

Reeve frowned, “So, you don’t think you’ll be coming back?”

“I honestly don’t know. It’s entirely up to my stepmother, and she… doesn’t care much for me.” Reeve snorted at the understatement, as Fitz continued, “She might send me back here, to keep me out of the way. Or she might decide to save some coin and just kick me out on my ear. I really don’t know.”

“Aw, that’s rough,” grumbled Broderic sympathetically, taking the bottle of brandy from Jos, and passing it on to Fitz. “I’d offer you a place to stay, but my family’s not much better.”

That was the bond between the four of them. Broderic and Jos had become Fitz’s friends over the Wintermarch holiday, his first year there, when they had had the school pretty much to themselves. Each had been deposited here in the mountains to be forgotten, Broderic because he was so far down the list of heirs that he no longer mattered, Jos because of his strange tics and awkward ways, and, of course, Fitz because of his bastardy. Reeve had joined their “Forgotten Sons” club last year, after arriving straight from the eighth school he had been kicked out of. To say his parents considered him an embarrassment was an understatement.

Reeve produced a deck of cards, and they spent the next couple hours playing Wicked Grace, getting pleasantly buzzed, and commiserating about their lot in life. For once, Fitz didn't even cheat. Eventually Broderic lumbered to his feet. 

“Well, you have to be up early. I guess we’d better go. I’ll come down to see you off in the morning. C’mon, Jos.”

Jos popped to his feet and silently followed Broderic. He paused at the door, and looked back at Reeve, who had made no move to follow. “Aren’t you coming, Reeve?”

Reeve smiled lazily. “In a minute.”

Broderic rolled his eyes, and pulled a puzzled Jos out into the hall, shutting the door firmly behind them.

Fitz regarded Reeve silently for a moment before dropping his gaze to the floor. “I’m going to really miss you, you know.”

Reeve rolled bonelessly up onto his feet and came to stand in front of Fitz. “I know,” he murmured. “That’s why I’ve decided to give you something to remember me by.” He put a finger under Fitz’s chin and tilted his head up. Looking deeply into Fitz’s eyes, he leaned in and kissed him gently on the lips. 

Fitz’s heart pounded as he leaned into the kiss, opening his mouth, inviting Reeve to take more. After a few minutes they came up for air. Reeve reached into his tunic and pulled out a small bottle of oil, which he placed in Fitz’s hand.

“Maker’s balls, Reeve. How much more do you have stored in there?” Fitz teased, pulling at the large V-neck collar of Reeve’s tunic and peering down into it.

Reeve took a step back, grinning. “Why don’t you come find out?”

As it turned out, there was nothing more than hot, naked flesh left inside that tunic, and Fitz explored every inch of it. And, when Reeve finally shed his trousers, Fitz made sure to thoroughly explore what he found there, too. Eventually, with a little fumbling and a lot of panting, Reeve guided Fitz inside him.

“Holy fuck,” Fitz thought in lust-drunk awe, “I’m actually fucking.” It wasn’t one of his most profound observations ever, but his mind was blown by the revelation, nonetheless.

Later, as they lay entwined together in sweaty sheets, Fitz pulled his sleeping friend tight to his chest and whispered three words in his ear.

It was the first time he said the words, and at the time he thought he meant them.


	4. Goodbyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz says his farewells.

“So, this Reeve was your first love, yes?” Dorian asked curiously.

“Well, puppy love, anyway. He _was_ my first. How fucked up is that? I lost my virginity the day I found out my father died.” Trevelyan shook his head, but the corner of his mouth quirked at the irony. 

“That does sound like a very busy day, yes.”

Trevelyan chuffed out a laugh. “Do you know, you remind me of Reeve, in some ways. I always did like the pretty, sassy ones.” He smiled warmly and stroked Dorian’s cheek.

“Bite your tongue,” Dorian huffed, turning up his nose. “ _I_ am incomparable. Oh, but I must know all the details,” he continued enthusiastically. “Start with the most important part: Was it a good brandy?”

“Knowing Reeve? Probably the best money could buy up there on that Maker forsaken rock. He did like to spend his parents’ money. But I’m not sure any of the rest of us had enough experience to know the difference.”

Dorian tutted, “Such a waste.”

* * *

Fitz and Reeve were awakened a few hours later to a gasp and a clatter of metal on stone.

“Oh! I’m so sorry!” One of the house maids had quietly slipped in to stoke up the fire, in anticipation of Fitz’s early departure. She obviously had not expected to find two naked boys wrapped around each other on the narrow bed. Apparently torn between curiosity and embarrassment, she kept darting quick glances toward them, then just as quickly looking away as she hurriedly gathered up the fireplace tools she had knocked over, in her surprise.

Fitz scrambled up into a sitting position, blushing and pulling the blankets up to cover himself. Reeve just laughed, stood up, stretched, and started nonchalantly getting dressed. Once he had regained a degree of modesty, he picked up his shoes and sauntered toward the door. As he passed, he stepped very close to the maid, held his finger to his lips in a “hush” motion, and winked, before slipping out into the hall.

Fitz and the maid studiously ignored each other while she quickly tended to the fire. Once she was gone, he got up, got dressed in his riding leathers, and headed down to find some breakfast before he had to ride out. Not surprisingly, Mrs. McReedy and her staff were already hard at work getting breakfast ready for the 200 students and faculty of the school. 

“Good morning, love. I’ve got some travel rations all set for you, over there by the door,” Mrs. McReedy greeted him, looking up from the dough she was kneading, as he entered the kitchen. “Set yourself down there at the table, and I’ll have Gretchen do you up a scramble. You’ll need a good breakfast before you hit the road.”

Fitz was not surprised to see Reeve already sitting at the table, hands wrapped around a mug of hot tea. He had, at least, taken the time to put on his shoes, tie a belt around his tunic, and run a comb through his hair. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Reeve greeted him, all smiles and innocence. “Sleep well?” 

Fitz blushed, but played along, “I’m afraid not. There was some kind of vermin in my room that kept me awake half the night.” He slid onto the bench next to his friend, reaching over to squeeze his knee under the table, and added more quietly, “I hope you don’t get in trouble because of, you know… the maid.”

Reeve reached down to take Fitz’s hand in his own. “What? Adelaide? Don’t worry, she won’t say anything.” At the skeptical look Fitz gave him, he waved his free hand dismissively and added, “I’ll give her something nice for her troubles.” Of course. Money solved everything, as far as Reeve was concerned. Granted, for the most part, this had mostly proven true for him.

About then, Broderic and Jos shuffled in, wearing pajamas and dressing gowns, their hair sticking up at all angles. Broderic yawned expansively before settling across the table from Reeve and Fitz. 

“Morning,” he rumbled, sleepily.

Jos said nothing, but sat next to Broderic and put his head down on the table, shielding his face with his arms. 

Reeve snickered. “Why, I do believe our poor Jos is hung over. We really must work on your tolerance, my boy.” He jostled Jos’s elbow playfully, but got nothing but an annoyed whine.

Just then, Gretchen, a pretty kitchen maid close to their age, glided up behind Jos with a plate full of scrambled eggs in one hand and three mugs of tea in the other. She plonked the mugs onto the table between the boys, and slid the plate in front of Fitz.

“What? No eggs for us?” complained Broderic. “I’m starving.”

“Don’t be cheeky. You’re not riding out before the sun comes up. You can eat in the dining hall, with the other boys, come breakfast time.” Even as she said it, though, she grabbed a basket full of last night’s leftover rolls and slid it in front of Broderic, smiling over her shoulder as she turned away.

“Why, Broders, I think she likes you,” teased Reeve.

Broderic grunted, his cheeks turning pink, as he bit off a piece of roll.

The scrambled eggs were good, cooked with bacon and onions, and a mild cheese. Fitz was just finishing the last of them when the Headmaster arrived, looking tired and a little disheveled.

“Oh, good. Trevelyan, you’re here. Your family’s retainer has arrived, and is awaiting you out in the courtyard. I’ve had your horse brought up from the stables. You need to get your bags and be going.”

His friends were waiting for him in the foyer when he came back down, wearing his cloak and quiver, and carrying his saddle bags and bow. He put his baggage down as he neared them. Intending to shake Broderic’s hand in farewell, he instead found himself pulled into a big bear hug.

“You take care of yourself, now. And be sure to write,” he said, thumping Fitz on the back.

Jos said nothing, but he had unshed tears in his eyes as he gave Fitz an awkward hug. 

Fitz held Reeve a beat longer than he had the others. “Try not to get into too much trouble, while I’m gone,” he said, trying not to choke up. He started to pull away, when Reeve pulled him back in. 

“I love you, too,” he whispered fiercely in Fitz’s ear, before letting him go. Fitz’s eyes went wide with surprise. Apparently Reeve had not been asleep when he made his confession last night, after all.

But there was no more time to discuss it, so Fitz reluctantly gathered up his belongings and headed out into the courtyard, to start his journey home.


	5. First Blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things get exciting.
> 
> Warning: Graphic violence.

Fitz was disappointed to find that it was not Adrion who had been sent to fetch him. In fact, to his knowledge, he had never seen this man before. He was short and stocky, with close-cropped black hair, and a two-day beard. There was an old scar across his left cheek. He scowled sullenly at Fitz as he turned away from his horse, having just loaded the last of the travel rations supplied by Mrs McReedy. 

“Name’s Wolfram,” the man growled, gripping Fitz’s forearm, Tevinter-style, in greeting.

Fitz looked around in puzzlement. When he had come up into the mountains, four and a half years ago, he had arrived with a party of four soldiers and a man servant. Today, he was greeted by just the one man.

“Where is the rest of my escort?” he asked, wondering if they were waiting down in the village.

The soldier shrugged. “Just me.”

That was… unusual. But, maybe the plan was to travel as quickly as possible. Or, more likely, maybe his stepmother was sending a message. Fitz pushed away his unease and tossed his bags up behind the saddle of his waiting horse. He buckled them down, strapped down his bow in its holster, checked the stirrups and girth strap, then mounted up and reined his horse toward the road to Ostwick. The sun was still just below the horizon as they left the school behind. 

Wolfram barely said a word to Fitz that day, shutting down any attempt he made at conversation with non-committal grunts and terse, monosyllabic replies. Fitz soon gave up, and spent most of the ride preoccupied with thoughts of Reeve and what had happened between them the night before. 

They did, indeed, make good time, so Fitz was surprised when Wolfram insisted that they stop and set up camp on the banks of a swiftly moving stream, well before dusk, rather than push on to the next town and a warm bed. Wolfram set about building a fire, while Fitz took his bow and went in search of some meat to add to their trail rations. He came back a little while later with a fat rabbit, which they spit-roasted and ate in silence. After dinner, they rolled out thick, quilted pads on the ground next to the fire, wrapped themselves in their cloaks, and went to sleep.

Fitz tried to sleep, anyway. He already missed his friends terribly, and he was anxious about what might happen once they reached Ostwick. Would he be welcomed back home? As nice as the thought was, it was unlikely. Would he be allowed to finish his education? Would he be apprenticed off someplace? Would he be kicked out with nothing but the clothes on his back? He dozed in and out of sleep with these thoughts churning in a never-ending loop through his head.

Looking back, he wasn’t sure what tipped him off to the impending danger. Perhaps it was the difference in temperature when the man stepped between him and the fire. Or maybe it was the snapping of a twig when he knelt over Fitz, hunting knife in his hand.

Fitz’s eyes flew open, and he rolled, even as he registered the glint of of firelight on sharpened steel. He leapt to his feet and turned toward his attacker. Wolfram had also regained his feet, and the two of them circled each other warily, the hunting knife like a pivot between them.

* * *

Dorian gasped in dismay. “You mean to say your stepmother actually sent an assassin to kill you?”

Trevelyan snorted. “Not hardly. More of a two-bit thug, really.”

“Oh, my apologies. I didn’t mean to cast aspersions on your professional standards.” Dorian gave him a sideways glance, eyes twinkling. “Clearly, you survived.”

Trevelyan grunted. “Thankfully, I think she underestimated me. After all, she hadn’t seen me since I was eleven. I doubt I would have had a chance against even a moderately skilled soldier, let alone a trained assassin.”

* * *

Fitz made a quick mental map of his surroundings, being careful not to telegraph his intentions by glancing toward his goal. Instead he slowly inched his way in a circle, trying to keep the fire between himself and his attacker. He had left his bow and arrows next to his saddle, near where they had picketed the horses for the night. With a bow and arrows in his hand, he had a chance of surviving this. As he neared his target, he made a break for it. He could hear heavy boots pounding after him as he stumbled across the clearing, away from the firelight. One hand snagged the bow, and the other plucked an arrow out of the quiver, even as he tripped and went tumbling. He heard the swish of the other man’s weapon over his head as he went down. For one crazy moment, it seemed as if time had slowed down, and everything moved in slow motion. Somehow, he managed to turn his fall into a sideways somersault, nocking the arrow, even as he rolled up onto one knee. He drew, aimed, and released in half a breath.

The arrow flew straight, embedding itself up to the feathers in Wolfram’s throat. The soldier’s eyes went wide, and he dropped the knife, clawing desperately at his throat. He made horrible gurgling noises, as he tried to pull the arrow out with blood-slicked hands. Even after he collapsed, it took him several minutes to die.

Fitz was suddenly overcome by violent shaking. He stumbled backwards, eyes wide with horror, as he watched the man writhe and gasp on the ground. Wolfram had been close enough when Fitz shot him that his blood had sprayed across Fitz’s face and chest and hands. Suddenly, he wanted nothing as desperately as he wanted to get that blood off. He dropped his bow and ran toward the stream that ran past their camp, stripping his shirt off as he went; He couldn’t stand one more second with that contamination against his skin. His boots and trousers and smalls came off shortly after, and he flung them on the grassy bank before wading, naked, into the freezing water. Using his ruined shirt, he scrubbed his skin until it was raw and red. As the panic slowly subsided, he realized that horror had been replaced by bone-aching cold. His teeth were chattering uncontrollably, and somewhere in the back of his mind it occurred to him that, wet and freezing, he risked surviving the attempt on his life, only to die from the cold.

Fitz gathered up his abandoned clothes with numb fingers, shoved his feet into his boots, not bothering to tie them up the calf, and made his way back to the fire, circling wide of the body still lying on the edge of camp. He made a beeline for his cloak, which was lying on the ground next to his bedroll, where he had left it. The fur lining was soft and warm across his bare shoulders. He pulled up the hood, then threw another couple logs on the dying fire, and stirred it back up to full flame, craving both the heat and the light the fire would bring. 

He knew there would be no sleeping the rest of the night. He had to figure out what he was going to do next.


	6. Onward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz makes a plan and heads to Kirkwall.

“I remember the first time I had to kill a man,” Dorian said quietly. “It’s not something you easily forget. The worst part was the smell of burning flesh.” He shivered and hugged his knees. “I couldn’t eat pork for a month.”

Trevelyan put an arm around his lover and pulled him closer. “It’s funny the things we can get used to. Back then, I thought I would die from the horror of it all. Today, I can wipe out an entire band of Venatori, and not even blink. Of course, it’s easier to kill a man when you don’t know his name.”

Dorian leaned his head on Trevelyan’s shoulder. “That’s probably why that Wolfram fellow didn’t want to talk to you. It would have made it harder to kill you.”

Trevelyan pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I had never thought about it that way.” He leaned his head on top of Dorian’s as he considered this.

Dorian laced his fingers through Trevelyan’s, where his hand rested on his stomach. “Well, I’m terribly glad he didn’t succeed.”

* * *

Fitz considered his options. His first thought was to turn around and go back to the school. But, if his stepmother wanted him dead, that’s the first place she’d look for him. And hadn’t she more or less said that she had the head of the school in her pocket? No. That was a bad idea. He briefly considered going on to Ostwick, and maybe reaching out to Adrion for help. But who was to say Adrion was even still there? Or that he’d take the side of some bastard kid who used to follow him around the estate, over the security of his own position? Besides, if _She_ was as smart and ruthless as he was starting to suspect, she would have made a point of getting rid of anyone who wasn’t absolutely loyal to her. No, his best bet was to disappear. He was a capable hunter, and could easily survive here in the woods for a time, if it were summer. But it was early fall, and winter snows could be upon him within a month. He had to get out of the mountains. So, barring the wilderness, the best place to disappear would be a larger city. Kirkwall was the closest.

That decided, he next turned his thoughts to living expenses. He wasn’t sure of the relative prices in Kirkwall, but he thought he probably had enough money to get by for a few months, if he was frugal. Especially if he planned on camping and hunting on the journey there. He could also sell the horses—would have to sell the horses; He couldn’t afford to feed and stable them. Having a plan, at least for the next few weeks, made him feel a bit calmer. He shivered, still mostly naked under his cloak, and decided he was dry enough by now to get dressed. Examining his leather trousers in the firelight, he found only a couple spots of blood, which were by now dry, and he was able to scrape them off with a thumbnail. He was thankful that he had been using his jerkin as a pillow, so it had been spared the splatter that ruined his shirt. He had a spare shirt in his saddle bags, but getting it meant having to pass close to Wolfram’s dead body. Well, there was nothing for it. He would have to do so eventually, anyway.

Once fully dressed from the waist down, he pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders and moved out of the firelight toward the baggage. He averted his eyes from the body as he quickly passed it, grabbed his saddle bags, and headed with them back to the fireside. Birds were starting to chirp in anticipation of the dawn, as he pulled a clean, soft shirt over his head, and laced his jerkin up over it. By the time the sun touched the horizon, he had packed the horses, doused the fire, and was on the road to Kirkwall. Having no shovel with which to dig a grave, he left Wolfram’s body where it lay.

Thankfully, he encountered no bandits on his journey to Kirkwall, save, perhaps, the stable master who bought the horses and tack for a fraction of what they were worth. He traded the fine saddle bags for a sturdy rucksack, and managed to find a weapons smith who bought Wolfram’s sword and helmet. He hadn’t had the stomach to strip the body of the rest of its armor, but he came to regret that decision as he started to realize how much more expensive it was to live in the city than he had thought. He decided to keep Wolfram’s hunting knife—the one the man had tried to kill him with—both as the well-made tool it was, and as a reminder to himself not to let his guard down.

It was dusk by the time he managed to find a small, but clean, room in a modest inn on the outskirts of town, where he could also get a hot bath, followed by a generous bowl of stew, a fresh-baked roll, and a tankard of small beer for a very reasonable price. Clean and sated, he went up to his room and, for the first time in more than a week, fell into a real bed, with real sheets and blankets. He was asleep almost before his head hit the pillow.

The next morning, Fitz decided to explore his surroundings. The weather was mild, this close to the coast, so he wore simple linen trousers and shirt, and his light cloak. He had never been to a city as large as Kirkwall before, and he found the constant buzz and movement both exciting and overwhelming. He wandered in a daze, drinking it all in. The whooshing and clanging of the blacksmith; the cries of hawkers; the ringing of a beggar’s bell; the clop, clop, clop of horses’ hooves on cobblestone—the sounds swirled around him in a madly spinning cacophony. He let his feet take him where they would. After a time the constant swirl and clamor became too much, so he turned down a quieter side street. He looked up in awe at the timber-frame buildings, rising as much as four stories in the air, each story encroaching farther into the street. Clothes lines were strung between the upper floors—shirts and sheets and smalls of every color and description swaying like standards in the light breeze. 

He giggled at the mental comparison. _I present to you, Ser Richard Thick, of the Mighty Red Long-johns. His opponent: Ser Peter Small, of the Silky Drawers_

After a time, the street began to narrow and twist. The houses became smaller and more run-down, the laundry coarser and less colorful. Distantly he heard the whine and drone of some exotic foreign instrument. He followed the noise out of curiosity. Turning a corner he found a young woman, wearing less than would ordinarily be seemly, engaged in conversation with a skinny young man who was sitting cross-legged on a cushion in front of an open doorway. The young man was idly playing a complicated-looking instrument with a long neck, and a plethora of strings. Sweet-smelling smoke poured out of the doorway from the dim interior of the building, and a red-paned lantern cast a warm glow in the dim alleyway. The musician spotted Fitz first, and gave a nearly imperceptible nod toward him, as he glanced back at the woman he was talking to. The woman turned to greet Fitz with a wide, easy smile.

“Good day, M’Lord,” she greeted him. “Care to come inside and wet your whistle?” She tilted her hips and raised an eyebrow suggestively. “Or, you could do it the other way around.”

It took Fitz a second to get the double entendre, but when he did, he blushed. Suddenly he flashed back on an early childhood memory of his mother smiling and flirting with the men who visited the bar in the brothel where he spent his first few formative years. Almost simultaneously he remembered her crying in the dark in the little room they shared.

“Uh, no thank you,” he replied, picking up his pace as he walked by.

“Ah, well, perhaps you’d prefer to meet some of the gentlemen waiting inside? Or, if your tastes run to the more exotic… We cater to all tastes here.”

The old Tevinter madam’s voice suddenly came unbidden into Fitz’s head. _Exotic looks like that sell well._ He shivered and fought the urge to break into a run. “No,” he said, more firmly than he intended. He wondered if, after the money ran out and he had nothing left to sell, he would reach the point where selling himself would seem like a good option. What he didn’t realize until years later, is that a man didn’t have to be a whore to prostitute himself. 

At least whores were honest about what they were.


	7. The Gambit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz develops a plan to make money.

“Did I ever tell you I had a brief career as a courtesan?” Dorian murmured into Trevelyan’s neck.

Trevelyan raised his eyebrows in surprise and turned to face Dorian. “Oh? When was this?”

“Mmmm,” he affirmed. “I was young. My father had sent me to this ghastly academy in Minrathous. Very strict. Very Religious. I lasted about three months before I couldn’t stand another minute of it, so I left. I had no skills to speak of, but there was this high-class bordello I had visited once before, as a patron. Somehow, I got it into my head that, if I was going to go out in search of men to fuck anyway, which I undeniably was, I should get paid for it. After all, who wouldn’t pay to have me, yes?”

Trevelyan gave him a squeeze. “Quite right.”

“Plus it had the added bonus of completely humiliating my family, should they ever find out about it. You know how it is when you’re young. I’m sure I thought I was being terribly clever. Anyway, I had the looks, and the social skills for the clientele they catered to, so I was hired. That’s actually where I met Magister Alexius.”

This surprised Trevelyan even more. “What, really? Somehow he didn’t strike me as the type.”

“Oh, he wasn’t. He was there with a bachelor’s party. I had been drinking heavily that night, for reasons I don’t care to recall, and I had this notion that he was the most attractive man in the room.” Dorian made a face. “He may very well have been, but I still don’t know what I was thinking.” He shook his head, a bemused smile on his face. “He flat out turned me down for sex, the blighter, but he paid for my time, and we got to talking. He, of course, knew my father, if only in passing, and had heard the rumors about me that were circulating at the time—most of them true, I’m afraid. But, apparently, he found me amusing—or perhaps he wanted to gain favor with my father—in any case, he invited me to his estate for a visit. On the carriage ride there, we talked about magic. He really was an exceptional theoretician. Such fascinating ideas. Anyway, he offered to finish training me, to be my mentor. It was a very lucky break. He… accepted me, without judgment, valued my input, and encouraged my interest in learning and exploring new things. I learned so much from him.” There was a note of melancholy in his voice, at the end. No doubt he was thinking about the events that had led to Alexius’s downfall.

Trevelyan placed a kiss on Dorian’s forehead. “I’m sorry for what happened to him.”

“So am I,” Dorian agreed sadly. After a moment he shook his head. “Ah, but I’ve hijacked your story. Please, continue.”

* * *

Fitz walked on until the houses gave way completely to shops and taverns. He could smell the ocean, so he figured he must not be far from the docks. He followed the jaunty sound of fiddle and bodhran to a busy tavern on the south side of the street. His stomach growled, reminding him that it was well past lunch time, so he pushed his way to the bar and ordered a nug-meat pasty and a tankard of small beer. There was a boisterous crowd gathered on the other side of the room, so he made his way over to see what was going on. Craning his neck, he could see five men around a table, playing cards. Three of them had apparently already quit, and were watching the remaining two intensely.

One, a plump man with a goatee, leaned back cockily, eyeing the other, a young noble. “Well, that’s it _M’Lord_.” He leaned sarcastically on “M’Lord”. “It would appear you do not have enough money left to cover the bet, and so, by default, I win.”

A low muttering rolled over the crowd. The young man was frowning at his cards. “Wait! I can give you a letter of credit. You know my family is good for it.”

“I’m afraid not,” the older man replied, voice dripping with insincere apology. “Letters of credit can be contested, and sometimes go unpaid. Sorry, you lose.” 

“How about my sword?” the young man asked, a note of desperation in his voice. “It was made by Master Harwin in Wycome. It is worth a good deal more than what you just put in the pot.”

The other man considered it for a moment. “All right, then. Do you need any cards?”

The noble smiled, “I don’t believe so. Prepare to weep.” He spread his cards out on the table. “Four kings.”

The man with the goatee shook his head sadly, “I’m afraid I only have four queens,” he said, turning them over one by one. “Oh! And the Black Divine.” He gave the noble a shit-eating grin. “That’s it, I won. Pay up!” the man guffawed. 

“What? That can’t be right!” The young noble’s smile melted into a look of shock. He stood up, looking ready for a fight, but seemed to think better of it when two of the other man’s friends stepped forward with hands on their weapons. Instead, with a look of disgust on his face, he undid his belt, slipped off a very fine looking sword in a jeweled scabbard, and threw it unceremoniously on the pile before turning away and storming out of the tavern, shoving other patrons out of the way as he went. The round man laughed all the harder as he pulled in his bounty.

An older gentleman standing next to Fitz elbowed his arm as the noble passed, and said, “You see that, son? Some people just don’t know when to quit. It becomes a sickness with them. Let that be a lesson to you.”

Indeed, it was a lesson to Fitz, albeit not the one the old man probably intended. It gave him an idea. He suddenly knew how he was going to get some money, without having to sell his body. He spent the next few hours hovering around the edge of the crowd, watching the rotund card sharp win round after round. He was pretty sure… Yes! Right there. He spotted the slight of hand as the card sharp forced a card onto one of his opponents. The man’s technique was slightly different from what Bron had taught him when he was a child, but the effect was the same. A plan formed in his head. There was some risk to it, but it would be so rewarding, in more ways than one.

When he finally found his way back to the inn where he was staying, he counted out his coins. To make this work, he would have to gamble most, of not all of it, and it had to look as if he could afford to loose it. The next day he put on his expensive riding leathers, and the fur-lined cloak, despite the relatively mild weather. He combed his hair, and dressed it with the expensive scented oils that he only got out on special occasions. He considered the Trevelyan family signet ring that his father had given him. On the one hand, he didn’t really want to draw attention to his family name, for fear there were still people hunting him, but on the other hand, if his plan was to work, he had to play up his noble origins. The ring would add the final bit of verisimilitude he needed. As long as he didn’t use it to actually sign for anything, he told himself, nobody would probably make note of whose crest it bore. Finally, he kohled his eyes, and rubbed a little dye he’d made from boiled blood lotus across his cheeks and nose, to give himself the ruddy look of a man who had been drinking.

He made his way back to the tavern where he had watched the card sharp the night before, and scanned the room, spotting the man and his two companions in the far corner. There were a few other patrons, but the tavern was not nearly as crowded as it had been the evening before. He had decided to play the role of a pampered and spoiled young lord, already well into his cups despite the relatively early hour. Thinking of Reeve, and his cocky confidence, he swaggered up to the bar.

“Here, my good man,” Fitz called loudly to the bar tender, slapping a full Sovereign onto the bar, “A flagon of ale, and keep it coming! You can keep the change, for your troubles.” He flinched inwardly at the extravagant gesture, but it seemed a good way to bait the trap. _Keep your eye on the final goal, Fitz._ Casually glancing around, he spotted the card sharp getting to his feet and approaching the bar. Good. It worked.

“Good day, to you M’Lord. I can’t say as I’ve seen you in this fine establishment before.” The man gave him a smarmy smile. 

“I just arrived in town, early this morning. I say, I was rather hoping to find some sort of entertainment, but it seems this place is as dull as the last one,” Fitz sniffed. “Of course, I had heard Kirkwall was a bit of a shit hole, but I thought surely that meant I’d at least find some gaming tables, or a few bawdy women to keep me company until my next ship sails on the morrow.”

“Ah, women there are plenty, if you know where to look,” the card sharp replied, with a wink. “For gaming, you’ll have to wait until a little later in the evening, when those establishments open for business.” Despite having only been in town a couple days, Fitz knew this was a lie. He also knew it meant his bait had been taken hook, line, and sinker. The man confirmed his assumption, “However, if you are in the mood for a game, I happen to have some cards. Perhaps you would care to join me in a game of Chanson D’Argent? We could make it… interesting. Name’s Heathcote, by the way.” 

“Cousland. Ser Harris Cousland,” Fitz replied, shaking Heathcote’s hand. “Excellent. I knew I had a good feeling about this place. After you.” He bowed slightly and gestured toward the corner table. “Barkeep, I’ll be over at this gentleman’s table. Be a good man and bring my ale over there, would you?”

No sooner had they sat down, two men approached their table. “Begging your pardon, but my friend and I overheard you say you were looking to have a game of cards. Do you mind if we join you?” These were two of the men who had been at the table the night before. Interesting.

“Of course! More players makes more fun! Come, get out your tankards, gentlemen, and let me pour you some ale,” Fitz offered, indicating the flagon a serving boy had just put on the table.

As the game went along, it became clear that these men’s job was to drive the pot up, before bowing out and leaving Heathcote to seal the deal. Fitz watched them all carefully, while he lost money by the fistful, all the while playing up his role as the naive and inebriated Ser Cousland. He was generous in sharing his never-ending flagon of ale, enabling him to keep up the appearance of drinking heavily, without actually getting terribly drunk. By the time they reached the final round, they had drawn an audience. All of Fitz’s money was in the pot, and his heart hammered as he approached his final play. If this didn’t work, he was going to be ass deep up a creek. He looked at his cards. Four kings. Interesting. Surely, this guy wasn’t so arrogant, as to pull exactly the same con, right down to the same cards, two days in a row?

“Well, that’s it _M’Lord_ ,” Heathcote said his line, just as he said it the day before. “It would appear you do not have enough money left to cover the bet, and so, by default, I win.”

“Wait!” Fitz twisted the ring on his thumb, his nervousness not entirely feigned. “Will you take my ring? It’s worth a good deal more than your bet.”

Heathcote pretended to consider it, then answered, “Alright. Do you need any cards?”

Heathcote couldn’t quite hide his surprise when Fitz said, “Yes.” Fitz reached out and grabbed the deck, placing the card he had palmed on the top of the pile. “And I claim my right to a re-shuffle.” He shuffled the deck, carefully avoiding disturbing the top card, did a false cut, and placed the deck back down on the table, one finger holding it down. “One card. Off the top, if you please,” he said, soberly looking Heathcote directly in the eyes for the first time all evening. Then he leaned back in his chair. A murmur went up around the room.

Heathcote glared daggers at him, but shoved the top card off the deck, and across to Fitz. “Show your cards,” he growled.

Fitz picked up his cards and pretended to examine them. “Four kings,” he said, placing each king down on the table face up, and laying the final card face down.

Heathcote smiled ferally, “Four queens,” he said, slapping each queen down on the table. “And the Black Divine. I win.” He reached out to gather up his winnings.

“Oh, but wait. I almost forgot.” Fitz gave him his most charming smile. “I also have the White Divine,” he said, turning the final card over. “I believe that means I win.”

There was a gasp, and a smattering of laughter and applause that ran around the room.

Heathcote leapt to his feet, “That’s impossible. You can’t have the White Divine, I…” He left the thought hanging, realizing what he had almost admitted to. His men’s hands went to their weapons. Fitz noted that the other two “players” took the opportunity to slip out the back door.

“What was that, sirrah? You what?” Fitz was watching Heathcote’s men carefully. This was where it could go very wrong, if Heathcote decided not to cut his losses and go.

The man licked his lips, and glanced around at the room full of dock workers and travelers in the now busy tavern. He smiled stiffly. “I’m disappointed, of course. But such is the game. Well played.” He gave Fitz a curt nod, eyes burning with anger, then he and his friends took their leave.

Fitz laughed aloud as he gathered up his winnings and slipped his ring back onto his left thumb. The sudden release of tension had left him feeling a little giddy. It worked! And he had damned near tripled his nest egg. He slipped the now-bulging coin purse around his neck, under his shirt, then stepped out into the street. It had grown dark while he was in the tavern, but his step was light as he started back to his little room at the inn. He turned down a side street, humming a jaunty tune. He didn’t realize his mistake, until he heard a voice behind him, close to his left ear.

“It takes balls to scam a scammer.”


	8. Taking and Receiving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz faces the consequences of his actions, and makes some new friends. 
> 
> WARNING: This chapter opens with graphic violence.

Fitz’s hand flew to the knife on his belt, but the man behind him was faster. A fist like a sledgehammer slammed into his kidney, and the knee on that side of his body collapsed under him as pain radiated across his back and down his leg. Another man’s boot slammed into his cheekbone as he went down. He struggled up onto his hands and knees just as a kick landed on his ribs. He heard a sickening crack as all the wind was forced out of his lungs. Panic rose to replace the air in his chest, as he desperately tried, and failed, to suck in a breath. Gasping, tears streaming down his face, he tried to crawl away, only dimly aware of the continued rain of fists and feet across his back, his legs, his buttocks. Another kick landed on his side, flipping him over on his back. His vision was starting to tunnel when the portly card sharp straddled him, knees pinning Fitz’s arms to the ground, a large knife gripped in his meaty hand. He smiled as he sliced the laces up the front of Fitz’s jerkin and shirt, then brought the knife to Fitz’s throat.

“I’m just going to take what’s mine,” he said, cutting the exposed money pouch from Fitz’s neck and slipping it, with a clink, into his own pocket, “And then, I’m going to make an example of you.” He pressed the tip of the knife into the thin flesh over Fitz’s collarbone. “I’ll start by marking you as the thief you are, before I slit your throat and leave you as a cautionary tale in the gutter.” He punctuated the words “thief” and “throat” with short, sharp slices with the knife.

* * *

Dorian traced the T-shaped scar on Trevelyan’s collarbone with his finger. “That’s how you got this?” he asked. “He was actually going to carve the word ‘thief’ into your skin before he killed you?” He sounded aghast.

“Mmmm,” Trevelyan confirmed, putting his hand over the mark to hide it. He spoke into his lap. “It was a local criminal underground thing. The body is left, usually naked, with a message and the criminal organization’s mark carved into its flesh, as a warning to others who might consider double-crossing them.”

“And I thought the Magisterium was ruthless,” Dorian muttered. He paused a moment, his brow knitted in thought. “So… At this point you had two people who wanted you dead? That’s quite the burden, for anyone, but especially for one so young.”

“Yes, well…” Trevelyan shrugged, and tried to make light of it. “I seem to have that effect on people.” He crooked one corner of his mouth, glancing up through his lashes at Dorian. “Call it early training for Corypheus.”

Dorian smiled back, but his eyes were sad. It occurred to Trevelyan how beautifully expressive his face was. 

“What happened next? How did you get away?” Dorian asked, leaning forward and twisting his hands in his lap.

“I’m getting to that.”

* * *

The sparking black tunnel narrowed and lengthened until Fitz could no longer see. He felt as if he was falling, spinning, down through the ground on which he lay, even as he felt it pressing hard against his back. A voice, distant yet near, called out in the darkness.

“Oy! What’s going on here?” 

Roaring. Heat. Shouting. The weight on his arms gone. Running feet. A hand on his face, now against his side. Tingling warmth. The blockage in his chest suddenly removed. He gasped in a lung-full of air. The pulse pounding in his throat started to slow, and his vision cleared. 

Two faces hovered over him. One was an elf with a cherubic face and curly brown hair. The other Fitz recognized, to his surprise, as the old man who had warned him about gambling the evening before. 

“We need to be going, before the Templars arrive,” the old man said. “Can you stand?”

Fitz nodded uncertainly. “I think so.” He tried to heave himself to his feet, but stumbled and gasped as a sharp pain lanced through his chest from his injured ribs. The elf leapt to his side and caught him before he fell. Fitz’s kidney throbbed, and he felt his gorge rise. Swallowing it down, he took a tentative step forward. His right hip joint felt stiff and swollen, but he was able to shuffle forward in some semblance of a walk, with his new ally helping to support his weight. The old man came up on his other side and slipped Fitz’s arm over his shoulders. Each with an arm around Fitz’s waist, their shoulders bearing most of his weight, they moved rapidly through the streets and back alleys of Kirkwall. Fitz quickly lost track of all the twists and turns as he was half-carried along the cobbled streets. 

Eventually, they stopped in front of a scarred door in a narrow back alley. The elf rapped out a syncopated rhythm, and a moment later the door opened to let them in. Fitz gaped at the towering, horned man who held the door for them.

“Shadrack,” the old man greeted the Qunari, “Give us a hand here. Take the boy upstairs. You can put him in my bed. I’m going to go talk with Sharla.” The Qunari nodded as he shut and bolted the door to the alley behind them. The old man turned to the curly-haired elf who was still supporting Fitz. “Dal’Fin, can you see to his other wounds?” At Dal’fin’s nod, he turned away and slipped through a curtain to their right, beyond which Fitz could hear the sound of many people laughing and talking. They must have come in the rear entrance to an inn or tavern. 

Directly in front of the alley door was a steep, narrow staircase leading up to a landing, before it turned and disappeared. Fitz was surprised when, instead of just taking the old man’s place in supporting him, Shadrack scooped Fitz off his feet and started carrying him up the stairs, following close behind Dal'Fin. He held Fitz surprisingly gently, his enormous hands supporting the boy’s hips and shoulder blades. Curiosity won out over wariness, and even pain, and Fitz examined the Qunari with unguarded wonder as he was hauled up four flights of stairs to the top floor. The man was almost too wide for the narrow staircase at the shoulders, and his curly ram-like horns came within a finger’s-breadth of the ceiling. He had a broad forehead, strong chin, high cheekbones, and a square jawline. His chocolate-brown skin looked thick and rough, but his warm, golden eyes were kind, and twinkled with amusement when he noticed the young human studying him in open-mouthed fascination. Dal’Fin opened a door two-thirds of the way down the corridor, and waved Shadrack through. Shadrack placed Fitz down gently on a narrow bed next to the wall. 

“Thanks, Shay,” Dal'Fin said, “I’ve got it from here. You can go back to your post.” Shadrack nodded and left, ducking as he passed through the doorway.

“I’ve never seen a Qunari before,” Fitz said in awe, once they were alone.

Dal’Fin gave him a small ironic smile. “Still haven’t,” he said, pulling up Fitz’s shirt and prodding the purpling bruises that covered the right side of his body from pelvis to armpit. “Shay is Vashoth: One who grew up outside the Qun. He wouldn’t take kindly to being called a Qunari.” He placed his hands on both of Fitz’s sides. “Breathe in, please. And out. Again.”

Maker, it hurt to breathe. Fitz jumped and hissed as Dal'Fin’s fingers dug into his ribs. Now that he was coming down from the adrenaline rush of their flight through the back alleys of Kirkwall, he was starting to feel every ache and pain in his body.

Dal'Fin frowned. “Three ribs, broken. Hold very still, please.” A soft green glow emanated from both hands, where he placed them over the damaged ribs. Once again, Fitz felt that tingling warmth that he had felt earlier when he was lying half-conscious in the street. The sensation was uncomfortably intense, but that wasn’t what shocked him.

“You’re a mage,” he gasped.

Dal’Fin glanced up at him, his face going hard. “The mage who just saved your life, and is currently healing your broken bones, yes. Would you like me to stop?” he asked sarcastically.

Fitz felt giddy with relief as the pain in his ribs drained away and the tingling subsided. “No. I’m sorry, I was just surprised, is all. May I ask, why aren’t you at your circle?”

Dal'Fin sighed. “I’m an apostate,” he said curtly. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to turn into a demon and eat you.” His eyes narrowed, briefly in irritation, but he quickly went back to business. “Please, remove your jerkin and shirt so I can properly examine you.”

Fitz did as he was told, surprised that it no longer hurt to lift his hands over his head. He took an experimental breath. Other than a lingering soreness, like sore muscles after a long day of riding, there was no pain. “Are you a blood mage?” he asked curiously. The idea had a certain forbidden thrill to it.

“No!” Dal'Fin answered sharply. He sighed again, then explained, “There were rumors going about my circle of a group of blood mages in residence. It turned into a witch-hunt. I watched several good mages made Tranquil solely on the testimony of other mages who were trying to save their own skins. By the time I was accused, I knew that my innocence would not protect me, so I left.” His voice was hard and matter-of-fact, his face kept carefully blank, but his eyes burned with anger.

“I…I’m sorry that happened to you.” Fitz felt like a heel. He owed this guy his life, and what does he do? Accuse him of being a Malificar.

Dal'Fin’s face softened. “Thank you. I…appreciate your concern. Right now, _I’m_ concerned about this bruise on your back,” he said, gently touching the bruise over Fitz’s kidney. “Please stand here in front of me, so I can take a closer look.”

Fitz stood in front of Dal'Fin, who poked and prodded some more, asked about the quality of the pain he experienced, then sent healing energy deep into Fitz’s bruised insides. 

Fitz gritted his teeth through the uncomfortable sensation, then sighed with relief as the stabbing, throbbing pain in his back eased. 

“Do you have any other injuries?” Dal'Fin asked when he’d finished.

“Just a lot of bruising, I think. Those fuckers were giving me quite the kicking before you showed up.” He glanced over his shoulder at the elf, hoping he hadn’t crossed another line with his language, but the man showed no sign of being offended.

“I have enough Mana left; I think I can help, at least with the worst of it. I also have some elfroot lotion we can apply. Let me take a look.”

Fitz fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment, before deciding to suck it up and drop trou for the mage. “It’s a bit embarrassing, actually,” he said, as he slid his pants down over his hips.

“Ah, I see. So, they quite literally kicked your ass,” Dal'Fin said dryly.

Fitz blushed, but laughed. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.” In reality, he was bruised from the back of his knees, to his shoulder blades, and all along the side of his right hip and thigh.

Just then, the door slammed open, and a tall, buxom woman with flame red hair walked into the room. “Andraste’s tits!” she exclaimed loudly, “I haven’t seen a derriere so purple since I disciplined that cute sailor from Antiva!” She laughed aloud at her own bawdy joke.

Fitz gasped and scrambled to pull his trousers up as he spun around to face the intruder.

She strode across the room in two steps, and took Fitz’s chin in her hand. With a dismayed tsk, she turned his head this way and that. “Oh, such a shame! Just look what they did to his pretty face. You are planning to fix this, 'Fin, yes?” She indicated the tender bruise on Fitz’s cheek. He touched it gently, wondering how bad it really was.

Dal'Fin rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry, he won’t be permanently disfigured.”

“Good.” She turned Fitz’s head back to face her, looked him directly in the eye and continued angrily, “The people who did this are going to pay. Nobody messes with my own.”

“Am I your own?” Fitz asked in surprise. “I don’t even know who you are.”

The woman laughed and released him. “Well, I suppose that’s true enough. My name is Sharla. I own this establishment. And what’s your name, sweetheart?”

“FitzHarris Tr—uh, just call me Fitz.” He mentally kicked himself for momentarily forgetting that he was supposed to be in hiding.

Sharla took hold of his left hand and looked at the signet ring on Fitz’s thumb. “Ah, yes. The ‘Just Call Me Fitzes’ of Ostwick. You must be the bastard old Harris was bragging about last time he was in town. The one making perfect marks in all his classes.” Sharla looked at him shrewdly, then burst into laughter at the look on his face. “Careful there,” she said, pushing his hanging jaw shut with a clack, “You don’t want any flies flying in. How is that old rascal anyway? I haven’t seen him in over a year.”

Fitz looked down, blinking back the tears that unexpectedly sprung to his eyes. 

“Dead,” he murmured. His mind was reeling. His father knew this woman? And had bragged about him? His heart clenched at this unexpected information.

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” Sharla said, pulling Fitz into a tight hug. “I liked him. He was good-hearted, and loved to laugh. I won’t pry, but I assume his death has something to do with why you’re here in Kirkwall, and not at your fancy school?” she asked, stepping back, and rubbing his arms affectionately.

Fitz nodded mutely, not trusting his voice.

“Well, don’t you worry. You’re one of us, now. Quentin told me about the little trick you played on old Heathcote,” she said, jerking her head toward the doorway, where Fitz’s other rescuer was leaning against the door frame. “He was impressed. And he’s not easy to impress.”

Fitz was relieved at the change in subject. “So, I take it you know this Heathcote guy?”

She snorted and waved a hand dismissively. “The man’s a hack. He runs a single, two-bit scam on wealthy tourists. No imagination, or finesse. You see? Even a child saw through him in no time.” She patted Fitz’s good cheek fondly. 

Fitz bristled. “I’m not a child,” he complained, uncomfortably aware of how childish it sounded. 

Sharla smiled indulgently. “No? So adorable. I’ll bet you’re still a virgin.” She tugged at the loose laces of his breeches teasingly.

Fitz grabbed at them, impulsively, and felt his cheeks warm. “No, I’m not,” he said petulantly, deciding not to mention that it was only by two weeks, or so.

She laughed in delight. “Well, then. I guess I stand corrected.” She winked, as if she knew exactly what he was thinking, then turned toward the door. “I really must get back to my customers. Quentin, once 'Fin finishes with him, why don’t you get Fitz settled into room two-twelve?” She turned back to Fitz. “We’ll continue this conversation in the morning.”

Fitz watched her go, wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up until yesterday morning, I was planning to let Fitz get away with his little con game. But, ultimately, I decided that it would make for better character building if I left him beaten and penniless in the street. I'm so sorry, Fitz.


	9. A Band of Rogues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fitz learns more about his rescuers, and is offered a job... of sorts.

Fitz slowly became aware of warmth spilling across his body, and a bright light shining in his eyes. He groaned and rubbed a hand over his face, wincing as his fingers encountered the still-tender bruise on his cheek. He stretched and pulled himself up into a sitting position, looking blearily around the room. His heart suddenly leapt in his chest, and he nearly fell, cursing, out of bed, when he spotted the tiny elven girl perched casually on the back of a chair, at the foot of his bed.

“Oy! Watch your fucking language,” she admonished him with a grin. “It’s about time you woke up. Do you know how long I’ve been sitting here waiting for you? Name’s Aelesia, by the way.”

Fitz sat pressed up against the headboard, naked, clutching a blanket around his middle, and tried to process what the girl was saying. “What?” he said, stupidly, brain still sluggish with sleep.

“Aelesia,” she said, slowly, as if she thought he were deaf. “I brought your stuff up, too. It’s over there,” she added, pointing toward the wall behind her, where Fitz was shocked to see his rucksack, bow, and quiver of arrows leaning under the window. 

So... this girl had, apparently, not only been sitting here watching him sleep, for Maker knew how long, but had also managed to sneak in carrying a pack half her size without him ever being the slightest bit aware of her presence. That was… a little disturbing. He studied her warily. She was about the size of a human ten-year-old, but there was something about her that suggested that she was older—probably around his own age. She wore baggy green linen breeches and a loose gray shirt with a banded collar. On a wide belt, she carried a hunting knife and a tooled leather pouch. Her dark brown hair was cut in a shaggy, androgynous style that hid all but the very tips of her pointed ears. She leapt up on bare feet and trotted to the door.

“Well, come on. Breakfast should be ready by now,” she said, turning to look back at him expectantly.

Fitz stared at her incredulously. “Uh, alright. Just, give me a moment to get dressed.”

She rolled her eyes at him impatiently, then grinned. “It's not like I haven't already seen your bits, anyway, while you were asleep,” she said, with a twinkle in her eye. Fitz wasn't sure how to respond to that. When he just sat there gaping at her, she shook her head and turned away with a shrug. “Fine. Just hurry it up.” She left, closing the door behind her.

“Maker’s breath,” Fitz muttered, feeling the heat climb all the way up to his ears. He looked around the room. He was sitting on a single, wrought-iron bed that was jammed up against a red brick wall on one side, and the door frame on the other. The room was situated in a corner of the building, and therefore had two windows, one in the short wall facing the bed, the other right next to him. This second window was the source of the sun beam that had initially woken Fitz. There was a desk with a hutch on the same wall as the bed, and across from it a small dresser. 

Fitz got cautiously out of bed, sore muscles complaining, and padded over to the door. He turned the key in the lock, just in case, then crossed the room in search of clothes. There was a large mirror hanging over the dresser. It was old, and cloudy in places, and there was a thin crack running across the bottom third, but it afforded him a good view of the damage his body had taken the night before. Between Dal’Fin’s magic, and the elfroot salve, much of it had been healed, but, there was still extensive bruising all over his body, most of it already turned a sickly, mottled yellow-green. He leaned in close to the mirror and poked at the bruise on his cheek. It was still sensitive, but it didn’t look as bad as he had feared. In a couple more days it would hardly be noticeable. He raised his chin and examined the raw, red T on his collarbone. That was probably going to leave a permanent scar. He sighed. All in all, though, the damage to his body wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

At this point, what he regretted much more was the damage to his finances. Heathcote had managed to escape with virtually every coin he had, with the exception of a few coppers that had been in his belt bag. At least he hadn’t lost his family ring. Speaking of which, given how quickly Sharla had recognized the crest, he couldn't risk wearing it openly anymore. He poked around in his rucksack and came up with a leather thong, which he used to tie the ring around his neck, as he had worn it the day his father gave it to him. He also came up with a comfortable set of clothes, which he put on before heading out into the hall. He took the key with him, and locked the door to his room. It jingled against the inn key when he dropped it in his belt pouch, and he had to wonder how they had not only found out where he was staying, but how they'd gotten into his room to retrieve his belongings.

Turning down the hall, he spotted Aelesia walking, arms spread, balanced perfectly on the banister at the top of the staircase. As he approached, she called out to him.

“I was only teasing, earlier, you know. I didn’t really see your bits.” Fitz’s relief was short-lived as she continued, “Only your butt. You have a nice butt, by the way.” She turned an elegant pirouette on the banister, and started back toward Fitz. “Or, it would be if it weren’t all green and yellow,” she added, wrinkling her nose.

* * *

“You do have a nice butt,” Dorian agreed. “Do you know what I was just thinking might be nice? If you marched that glorious butt down to the kitchen and got us something to eat.”

Trevelyan laughed. “I admit, I am a bit peckish, myself. But, if I have to get up and get dressed, so do you.” Grinning ferally, he reached over and grabbed at the blanket Dorian was wrapped in, giving it a hard tug.

Dorian managed to grab hold of a corner of the blanket, before he was left completely bare. He rolled out of Trevelyan’s reach, and gave him a wicked grin, “Whoever said you had to get dressed, Inquisitor?”

“You are a wicked man, Lord Pavus,” Trevelyan teased, crawling across the bed after the mage. “Can you imagine the scandal? The Herald of bloody Andraste, dashing naked through the great hall.”

Dorian’s grin widened. “It’s all part of my plan, you know. Evil Tevinter Magister, and all that.” He slipped out the other side of the bed, trying to make his escape. He didn’t get far before Trevelyan caught up with him, pouncing, and grabbing him around the waist, before swinging him around in a circle. Trevelyan’s feet got tangled in the trailing sheets, and the two of them went down, laughing. He attacked Dorian’s neck with a trail of kisses, while his fingers crawled up ticklish ribs. 

Dorian squealed and panted, “Alright! I give up, I’ll go with you.” He flopped over to regard Trevelyan with fond exasperation, “Really! You are such a child.”

“It’s all part of my charm,” Trevelyan answered, planting a final kiss on Dorian’s cheek.

Dorian sighed, “It’s true, I’m afraid. Now, let me up, you ruffian.” 

They both got up and pulled on breaches, then ran barefoot down the stairs. Trevelyan poked his head out the door to see if the coast was clear. It was well past midnight, so the great hall was completely empty. They trotted, hands entwined, past the banquet table, to the door that led to Josephine’s study and the stairs to the basement. 

“You go see what you can find us to eat, and I’ll go raid the wine cellar,” Dorian suggested. “I seem to recall a rather tempting Tevinter Shiraz that we found in the Western Approach.”

A few minutes later, Trevelyan met Dorian back at the foot of the stairs with long, narrow loaf of bread, a chunk from an enormous wheel of cheese, and a couple of small sausages. Dorian had found his Shiraz, and had also brought a decent-looking Nevarran Merlot, for good measure. Together, they sneaked back up to the Inquisitor’s tower retreat with their purloined picnic. Trevelyan tossed a couple more logs on the fire, and they settled down on a rug in front of the hearth to eat. 

“Now, where was I?” he asked, tearing off a hunk of bread and passing the rest of the loaf to Dorian.

“A little imp was getting fresh with you,” Dorian reminded him, handing him a glass of wine. 

“Oh, yes.”

* * *

Aelesia jumped delicately down from the banister and led the way down to a private dining room off the kitchen on the ground floor. Several people were seated at a long table, lined with benches. As they walked in, Fitz spotted Quentin arguing with a rough-looking man with a black beard.

“I don’t see why we need another one. We’re doing fine as we are,” the dark-haired man was complaining. 

“The kid has talent, and a good feel for the long game. He also has a… certain bearing. He can do Nobs with an authenticity that none of us can. Think of the possibilities.” Just then, Quentin spotted Fitz. “Ah, good morning, Fitz,” Quentin greeted him. “Sleep well?”

“Too well,” Fitz answered, giving Aelesia a sideways glance. He followed her to a sideboard covered with baskets of rolls, plates of cold-cuts, jugs of juice, and a large pot of porridge. 

Quentin chuckled. “Ah, I see you’ve met our little cat burglar. You, of course, know Dal’Fin, and you met Shadrack last night. He’s in charge of in-house security.” He gestured toward the bearded man, “This is Zane. Jack of all trades, he is.”

Zane nodded tersely and grunted, barely looking up from his plate.

“And that’s Jivette,” Quentin continued, indicating a beautiful blonde woman of about thirty. “She’s not just a pretty face; She’s also the best pick-pocket I’ve ever had the pleasure to work with.” He grinned and winked at her, and received a wry smile in response.

Jivette turned back to Fitz. “Good to meet you, Fitz,” she greeted him warmly. “Quentin speaks highly of you.”

Slightly bemused, Fitz smiled politely through the introductions. “Delighted to meet you all,” he said, clicking his heels and giving a short, formal bow.

Jivette laughed musically, “I see what you mean, Quentin. Very regal, indeed.”

“Well, I like him. I think we should keep him,” offered Aelesia, settling cross-legged on the nearest bench with a big bowl of porridge. She wiped a stray drizzle of honey off the edge of the bowl and licked it from her thumb.

“Maker’s balls, Aelesia. He’s not a puppy,” Zane grumbled. He turned back to Quentin. “The profit margin is thin enough by the time Sharla gets her cut, and we split what’s left four ways. Now you want to split it five?”

“You’re not looking at the big picture, Zane. As usual.” Jivette glanced up from buttering a roll and gave Zane a disparaging look. “The jobs we’re pulling right now are fairly low-profit. The boy can give us access to much bigger jobs. Think about it. If we had an in with the nobility…”

Fitz put together a plate of bread and cold cuts while he listened to this exchange. He settled in, gingerly, on the other side of the table, across from Aelesia. “I’m not quite sure I’m following,” he said. “Just what is it you want me to do? My family and I are… estranged. I really don’t have any connections to use.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dal'Fin give him a look. Estranged. Dead. Same difference.

Quentin shook his head. “I’m sorry, I guess we have put the cart before the horse. I never explained, did I? You see, my colleagues and I are… a band of rogues.” He gestured to indicate himself, Aelesia, Zane and Jivette. “We lie, cheat and steal to earn our living. We've been discussing whether or not we should offer you a job.” He paused and looked at Fitz appraisingly. “I saw you at the Salty Sailor the day before yesterday.”

“You tried to warn me off, as I recall,” Fitz said, voice heavy with irony. “It seems I should have listened to you.”

Quentin, acknowledged this with a non-committal bob of his head. “I saw the transformation you pulled off, when you came back the next day,” he continued. “I saw how you tempted Heathcote into targeting you, and how you played your role to string him along and keep him off his guard. The slight-of-hand was well executed, as well. You probably would have gotten away with it, if you hadn’t made one fatal mistake. Do you know what that mistake was?”

Fitz sighed and looked down at his plate, “I got cocky.”

“Exactly so. You showed him your cards, so to speak. You let him _know_ that he’d been played. Old Heathcote may be a hack, but he has the ego of a first-class grifter. He couldn’t let the insult go unpunished.” Quentin leaned forward and smiled at Fitz. “Nevertheless, I decided last night to recruit you. It’s a good thing, as well. That’s why Dal’Fin and I were following you.”

“And that’s the last time I go out drinking with you, old man,” Dal’Fin interjected from the far end of the table. He gave Fitz a wink.

Fitz wrinkled his brow. “So, what you’re saying is, you want me to join you, as what? A thief? A con artist?” He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the idea. He supposed it was better than some of his other options.

“That was my plan, if everyone agrees.” Quentin looked around at his comrades, eyebrows raised. 

Aelesia nodded vigorously, teeth clicking on the spoon in her mouth. Jivette nodded and made a welcoming gesture. Zane looked back and forth among the other three thieves, who were all looking at him expectantly, and sighed.

“Well, I guess I’m outvoted. Fine. This had bloody well better pay off.” 

Satisfied, Quentin gave a brisk nod and turned back to Fitz. “We’ll have to train you, of course. But, you have good instincts. Assuming you agree to join us?” 

Fitz thought about it for a moment. What other options did he really have? He was alone and penniless. And he owed these people his life. “I would be honored to join you,” he replied.

Quentin raised his hand in warning. “Now, there are a few rules. Number one:”

“Don’t shit where you eat,” Zane interrupted.

“Yes,” Quentin continued, shooting Zane a wry look. “Sharla is our patron, if you will. She gives us food, shelter, and the use of her healer," he gestured an acknowledgment toward Dal'Fin, "In exchange for twenty percent of the profits. We never, ever, steal in her establishment, or target her customers.”

“And if you want to use the services of her girls, you treat ‘em right, and pay out of your own pocket, yeah?” Zane added, gesticulating at him with his knife.

“Girls?” Fitz asked, already suspecting what he was going to hear.

“This is a house of ill repute, my dear,” Jivette confirmed, with a twinkle in her eye, probably misinterpreting his uncomfortable squirming. “The girls have rooms on the second floor. You probably won’t see them until lunch, since most of them were working until the early hours this morning.” 

“Rule two,” Quentin continued, “We don’t use people’s kindness or charity against them. Greed, dishonesty, vanity—all fair game, but we don’t take advantage of good people’s better natures. Got that?” He leaned forward and gave Fitz a serious look.

“Yes, of course,” answered Fitz.

“Good. Now eat up. We’ve got some serious training to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really struggling with this one, so I decided to indulge myself in some extra syrupy InquisiDor fluff, along with the exposition that needed to happen to move the story along. Hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> I must also apologize for the delay. Unfortunately, with school starting back up, time between chapters will probably continue to be long. I hope you'll hang in there with me.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first attempt at fan-fiction. I hope you like it. 
> 
> I also don't have a beta tester. If anyone would like to volunteer, I'd be happy to return the favor.
> 
> Finally, If you are curious what Fitz looks like (in my mind's eye), here he is:
> 
> [At 15](http://imgur.com/7tENliD)   
>  [At the time of Inquisition](http://imgur.com/kWII8Vn)


End file.
